"Ever be­en to a shrink?"

  "No," I li­ed. The truth was, I was in co­un­se­ling with the scho­ol psycho­lo­gist, Dr. Hend­rick­son. It wasn't by cho­ice, and it wasn't so­met­hing I li­ked to talk abo­ut.

  "Do­ne anyt­hing il­le­gal?"

  "No." Oc­ca­si­onal­ly bre­aking the spe­ed li­mit wo­uldn't co­unt. Not with him. "Why don't you ask me so­met­hing nor­mal? Li­ke… my fa­vo­ri­te kind of mu­sic?"

  "I'm not go­ing to ask what I can gu­ess."

  "You do not know the type of mu­sic I lis­ten to."

  "Ba­ro­que. With you, it's all abo­ut or­der, cont­rol. I bet you play… the cel­lo?" He sa­id it li­ke he'd pul­led the gu­ess out of thin air.

  "Wrong." Anot­her lie, but this one sent a chill rip­pling along my skin. Who was he re­al­ly? If he knew I pla­yed the cel­lo, what el­se did he know?

  "What's that?" Patch tap­ped his pen aga­inst the in­si­de of my wrist. Ins­tinc­ti­vely I pul­led away.

  "A birth­mark."

  "Lo­oks li­ke a scar. Are you su­ici­dal, No­ra?" His eyes con­nec­ted with mi­ne, and I co­uld fe­el him la­ug­hing. "Pa­rents mar­ri­ed or di­vor­ced?"

  "I li­ve with my mom."

  "Whe­re's dad?"

  "My dad pas­sed away last ye­ar."

  "How did he die?"

  I flinc­hed. "He was-mur­de­red. This is kind of per­so­nal ter­ri­tory, if you don't mind."

  The­re was a co­unt of si­len­ce and the ed­ge in Patch's eyes se­emed to sof­ten a to­uch. "That must be hard." He so­un­ded li­ke he me­ant it.

  The bell rang and Patch was on his fe­et, ma­king his way to­ward the do­or.

  "Wa­it," I cal­led out. He didn't turn. "Excu­se me!" He was thro­ugh the do­or. "Patch! I didn't get anyt­hing on you."

  He tur­ned back and wal­ked to­ward me. Ta­king my hand, he scrib­bled so­met­hing on it be­fo­re I tho­ught to pull away.

  I lo­oked down at the se­ven num­bers in red ink on my palm and ma­de a fist aro­und them. I wan­ted to tell him no way was his pho­ne rin­ging to­night. I wan­ted to tell him it was his fa­ult for ta­king all the ti­me qu­es­ti­oning me. I wan­ted a lot of things, but I just sto­od the­re lo­oking li­ke I didn't know how to open my mo­uth.

  At last I sa­id, "I'm busy to­night."

  "So am I." He grin­ned and was go­ne.

  I sto­od na­iled to the spot, di­ges­ting what had just hap­pe­ned. Did he eat up all the ti­me qu­es­ti­oning me on pur­po­se? So I'd fa­il? Did he think one flashy grin wo­uld re­de­em him? Yes, I tho­ught. Yes, he did.

  "I won't call!" I cal­led af­ter him. "Not-ever!"

  "Ha­ve you fi­nis­hed yo­ur co­lumn for to­mor­row's de­ad­li­ne?" It was Vee. She ca­me up be­si­de me, jot­ting no­tes on the no­te­pad she car­ri­ed everyw­he­re. "I'm thin­king of wri­ting mi­ne on the inj­us­ti­ce of se­ating charts. I got pa­ired with a girl who sa­id she just fi­nis­hed li­ce tre­at­ment this mor­ning."

  "My new part­ner," I sa­id, po­in­ting in­to the hal­lway at the back of Patch. He had an an­no­yingly con­fi­dent walk, the kind you find pa­ired with fa­ded T-shirts and a cow­boy hat. Patch wo­re ne­it­her. He was a dark-Le­vi's-dark-Hen­ley-dark-bo­ots kind of guy.

  "The se­ni­or trans­fer? Gu­ess he didn't study hard eno­ugh the first ti­me aro­und. Or the se­cond." She ga­ve me a kno­wing lo­ok. "Third ti­me's a charm."

  "He gi­ves me the cre­eps. He knew my mu­sic. Wit­ho­ut any hints what­so­ever, he sa­id, 'Ba­ro­que.' "I did a po­or job of mi­mic­king his low vo­ice.

  "Lucky gu­ess?"

  "He knew… ot­her things."

  "Li­ke what?"

  I let go of a sigh. He knew mo­re than I wan­ted to com­for­tably con­temp­la­te. "Li­ke how to get un­der my skin," I sa­id at last. "I'm go­ing to tell Co­ach he has to switch us back."

  "Go for it. I co­uld use a ho­ok for my next eZi­ne ar­tic­le. 'Tenth Gra­der Fights Back.' Bet­ter yet, 'Se­ating Chart Ta­kes Slap in the Fa­ce.' Mmm. I li­ke it."

  At the end of the day, I was the one who to­ok a slap in the fa­ce. Co­ach shot down my plea to ret­hink the se­ating chart. It ap­pe­ared I was stuck with Patch.

  For now.

  CHAPTER 2

  MY MOM AND I LI­VE IN A DRAFTY EIGH­TE­ENTH-cent­rury farm­ho­use on the outs­kirts of Cold­wa­ter. It's the only ho­use on Hawt­hor­ne La­ne, and the ne­arest ne­igh­bors are al­most a mi­le away. I so­me­ti­mes won­der if the ori­gi­nal bu­il­der re­ali­zed that out of all the plots of land ava­ilab­le, he cho­se to const­ruct the ho­use in the eye of a myste­ri­o­us at­mosp­he­ric in­ver­si­on that se­ems to suck all the fog off Ma­ine's co­ast and transp­lant it in­to our yard. The ho­use was at this mo­ment ve­iled by glo­om that re­semb­led es­ca­ped and wan­de­ring spi­rits.

  I spent the eve­ning plan­ted on a sto­ol in the kitc­hen in the com­pany of al­geb­ra ho­me­work and Do­rot­hea, our ho­use­ke­eper. My mom works for the Hu­go Re­nal­di Auc­ti­on Com­pany, co­or­di­na­ting es­ta­te and an­ti­que auc­ti­ons all along the East Co­ast. This we­ek she was in ups­ta­te New York. Her job re­qu­ired a lot of tra­vel, and she pa­id Do­rot­hea to co­ok and cle­an, but I was pretty su­re the fi­ne print on Do­rot­hea's job desc­rip­ti­on inc­lu­ded ke­eping a watch­ful, pa­ren­tal eye on me.

  "How was scho­ol?" Do­rot­hea as­ked with a slight Ger­man ac­cent. She sto­od at the sink, scrub­bing over­ba­ked la­sag­na off a cas­se­ro­le dish.

  "I ha­ve a new bi­ology part­ner."

  "This is a go­od thing, or a bad thing?"

  "Vee was my old part­ner."

  "Humph." Mo­re vi­go­ro­us scrub­bing, and the flesh on Do­rot­hea's up­per arm jig­gled. "A bad thing, then."

  I sig­hed in ag­re­ement.

  "Tell me abo­ut the new part­ner. This girl, what is she li­ke?"

  "He's tall, dark, and an­no­ying." And eerily clo­sed off. Patch's eyes we­re black orbs. Ta­king in everyt­hing and gi­ving away not­hing. Not that I wan­ted to know mo­re abo­ut Patch. Sin­ce I hadn't li­ked what I'd se­en on the sur­fa­ce, I do­ub­ted I'd li­ke what was lur­king de­ep in­si­de.

  Only, this wasn't exactly true. I'd li­ked a lot of what I'd se­en. Long, le­an musc­les down his arms, bro­ad but re­la­xed sho­ul­ders, and a smi­le that was part play­ful, part se­duc­ti­ve. I was in an une­asy al­li­an­ce with myself, trying to ig­no­re what had star­ted to fe­el ir­re­sis­tib­le.

  At ni­ne o'clock Do­rot­hea fi­nis­hed for the eve­ning and loc­ked up on her way out. I flas­hed the porch lights twi­ce to say go­od-bye; they must ha­ve pe­net­ra­ted the fog, be­ca­use she ans­we­red with a honk. I was alo­ne.

  I to­ok in­ven­tory of the fe­elings pla­ying out in­si­de me. I wasn't hungry. I wasn't ti­red. I wasn't even all that lo­nely. But I was a lit­tle bit rest­less abo­ut my bi­ology as­sign­ment. I'd told Patch I wo­uldn't call, and six ho­urs ago I'd me­ant it. All I co­uld think now was that I didn't want to fa­il. Bi­ology was my to­ug­hest su­bj­ect. My gra­de tot­te­red prob­le­ma­ti­cal­ly bet­we­en A and B. In my mind, that was the dif­fe­ren­ce bet­we­en a full and half scho­lars­hip in my fu­tu­re.

  I went to the kitc­hen and pic­ked up the pho­ne. I lo­oked at what was left of the se­ven num­bers still tat­to­o­ed on my hand. Sec­retly I ho­ped Patch didn't ans­wer my call. If he was una­va­ilab­le or un­co-ope­ra­ti­ve on as­sign­ments, it was evi­den­ce I co­uld use aga­inst him to con­vin­ce Co­ach to un­do the se­ating chart. Fe­eling ho­pe­ful, I ke­yed in his num­ber.

  Patch ans­we­red on the third ring. "What's up?"

  In a mat­ter-of-fact to­ne I sa­id, "I'm cal­ling to see if we can me­et to­night. I know you sa­id you're busy, but-"

  "No­ra." Patch sa­id my na­me li­ke it was the punch li­ne to a joke. "Tho­ught you we­ren't go­ing to call. Ever."

  I ha­ted that I was eating my words. I ha­ted Patch for rub­bing it in. I ha­ted Co­ach and his de­ran­ged as­sign­ments. I ope­ned my mo­uth, ho­ping so­met­hing smart wo­uld co­me out. "Well? Can we me­et or not?"

  "As it turns out, I can't."

  "Can't, or won't?"

  "I'm in the mid­dle of a po­ol ga­me." I he­ard the smi­le in his vo­ice. "An im­por­tant po­ol ga­me."

  From the backg­ro­und no­ise I he­ard on his end, I be­li­eved he was tel­ling the truth-abo­ut the po­ol ga­me. Whet­her it was mo­re im­por­tant than my as­sign­ment was up for de­ba­te.

  "Whe­re are you?" I as­ked.

  "Bo's Ar­ca­de. It's not yo­ur kind of han­go­ut."

  "Then let's do the in­ter­vi­ew over the pho­ne. I've got a list of qu­es­ti­ons right-"

  He hung up on me.

  I sta­red at the pho­ne in dis­be­li­ef, then rip­ped a cle­an she­et of pa­per from my no­te­bo­ok. I scrib­bled Jerk on the first li­ne. On the li­ne be­ne­ath it I ad­ded, Smo­kes ci­gars. Will die of lung can­cer. Ho­pe­ful­ly so­on. Ex­cel­lent physi­cal sha­pe.

  I im­me­di­ately scrib­bled over the last ob­ser­va­ti­on un­til it was il­le­gib­le.

  The mic­ro­wa­ve clock blin­ked to 9:05. As I saw it, I had two cho­ices. Eit­her I fab­ri­ca­ted my in­ter­vi­ew with Patch, or I dro­ve to Bo's Ar­ca­de. The first op­ti­on might ha­ve be­en temp­ting, if I co­uld just block out Co­ach's vo­ice war­ning that he'd check all ans­wers for aut­hen­ti­city. I didn't know eno­ugh abo­ut Patch to bluff my way thro­ugh a who­le in­ter­vi­ew. And the se­cond op­ti­on? Not even re­mo­tely temp­ting.

  I de­la­yed ma­king a de­ci­si­on long eno­ugh to call my mom. Part of our ag­re­ement for her wor­king and tra­ve­ling so much was that I act res­pon­sibly and not be the kind of da­ugh­ter who re­qu­ired cons­tant su­per­vi­si­on. I li­ked my fre­edom, and I didn't want to do anyt­hing to gi­ve my mom a re­ason to ta­ke a pay cut and get a lo­cal job to ke­ep an eye on me.

  On the fo­urth ring her vo­ice ma­il pic­ked up.

  "It's me," I sa­id. "Just chec­king in. I've got so­me bi­ology ho­me­work to fi­nish up, then I'm go­ing to bed. Call me at lunch to­mor­row, if you want. Lo­ve you."

  After I hung up, I fo­und a qu­ar­ter in the kitc­hen dra­wer. Best to le­ave comp­li­ca­ted de­ci­si­ons to fa­te.

  "He­ads I go," I told Ge­or­ge Was­hing­ton's pro­fi­le, "ta­ils I stay." I flip­ped the qu­ar­ter in the air, flat­te­ned it to the back of my palm, and da­red a pe­ek. My he­art squ­e­ezed out an ext­ra be­at, and I told myself I wasn't su­re what it me­ant.

  "It's out of my hands now," I sa­id.

  De­ter­mi­ned to get this over with as qu­ickly as pos­sib­le, I grab­bed a map off the frid­ge, snag­ged my keys, and bac­ked my Fi­at Spi­der down the dri­ve­way. The car had pro­bably be­en cu­te in 1979, but I wasn't wild abo­ut the cho­co­la­te brown pa­int, the rust spre­ading unc­hec­ked ac­ross the back fen­der, or the crac­ked whi­te le­at­her se­ats.

  Bo's Ar­ca­de tur­ned out to be fart­her away than I wo­uld ha­ve li­ked, nest­led clo­se to the co­ast, a thirty-mi­nu­te dri­ve. With the map flat­te­ned to the ste­ering whe­el, I pul­led the Fi­at in­to a par­king lot be­hind a lar­ge cin­der-block bu­il­ding with an elect­ric sign flas­hing BO'S AR­CA­DE, MAD BLACK PA­INT­BALL & OZZ'S PO­OL HALL. Graf­fi­ti splas­hed the walls, and ci­ga­ret­te butts dot­ted the fo­un­da­ti­on. Cle­arly Bo's wo­uld be fil­led with fu­tu­re Ivy Le­agu­ers and mo­del ci­ti­zens. I tri­ed to ke­ep my tho­ughts lofty and nonc­ha­lant, but my sto­mach felt a lit­tle une­asy. Do­ub­le-chec­king that I'd loc­ked all the do­ors, I he­aded in­si­de.

  I sto­od in li­ne, wa­iting to get past the ro­pes. As the gro­up ahe­ad of me pa­id, I squ­e­ezed past, wal­king to­ward the ma­ze of bla­ring si­rens and blin­king lights.

  "Think you de­ser­ve a free ri­de?" hol­le­red a smo­ke-ro­ug­he­ned vo­ice.

  I swung aro­und and blin­ked at the he­avily tat­to­o­ed cas­hi­er. I sa­id, "I'm not he­re to play. I'm lo­oking for so­me­one."

  He grun­ted. "You want past me, you pay." He put his palms on the co­un­ter, whe­re a pri­ce chart had be­en duct-ta­ped, sho­wing I owed fif­te­en dol­lars. Cash only.

  I didn't ha­ve cash. And if I had, I wo­uldn't ha­ve was­ted it to spend a few mi­nu­tes in­ter­ro­ga­ting Patch abo­ut his per­so­nal li­fe. I felt a flush of an­ger at the se­ating chart and at ha­ving to be he­re in the first pla­ce. I only ne­eded to find Patch, then we co­uld hold the in­ter­vi­ew out­si­de. I was not go­ing to dri­ve all this way and le­ave empty-han­ded.

  "If I'm not back in two mi­nu­tes, I'll pay the fif­te­en dol­lars," I sa­id. Be­fo­re I co­uld exer­ci­se bet­ter judg­ment or mus­ter up a tad mo­re pa­ti­en­ce, I did so­met­hing comp­le­tely out of cha­rac­ter and duc­ked un­der the ro­pes. I didn't stop the­re. I hur­ri­ed thro­ugh the ar­ca­de, ke­eping my eyes open for Patch. I told myself I co­uldn't be­li­eve I was do­ing this, but I was li­ke a rol­ling snow­ball, ga­ining spe­ed and mo­men­tum. At this po­int I just wan­ted to find Patch and get out.

  The cas­hi­er fol­lo­wed af­ter me, sho­uting, "Hey!"

  Cer­ta­in Patch was not on the ma­in le­vel, I jog­ged downs­ta­irs, fol­lo­wing signs to Ozz's Po­ol Hall. At the bot­tom of the sta­irs, dim track ligh­ting il­lu­mi­na­ted se­ve­ral po­ker tab­les, all in use. Ci­gar smo­ke al­most as thick as the fog en­ve­lo­ping my ho­use clo­uded the low ce­iling. Nest­led bet­we­en the po­ker tab­les and the bar was a row of po­ol tab­les. Patch was stretc­hed ac­ross the one fart­hest from me, at­temp­ting a dif­fi­cult bank shot.

  "Patch!" I cal­led out.

  Just as I spo­ke, he shot his po­ol stick, dri­ving it in­to the tab­le-top. His he­ad whip­ped up. He sta­red at me with a mix­tu­re of surp­ri­se and cu­ri­osity.

  The cas­hi­er clom­ped down the steps be­hind me, vi­sing my sho­ul­der with his hand. "Upsta­irs. Now."

  Patch's mo­uth mo­ved in­to anot­her ba­rely-the­re smi­le. Hard to say if it was moc­king or fri­endly. "She's with me."

  This se­emed to hold so­me sway with the cas­hi­er, who lo­ose­ned his grip. Be­fo­re he co­uld chan­ge his mind, I sho­ok off his hand and we­aved thro­ugh the tab­les to­ward Patch. I to­ok the first se­ve­ral steps in stri­de, but fo­und my con­fi­den­ce slip­ping the clo­ser I got to him.

  I was im­me­di­ately awa­re of so­met­hing dif­fe­rent abo­ut him. I co­uldn't qu­ite put my fin­ger on it, but I co­uld fe­el it li­ke elect­ri­city. Mo­re ani­mo­sity?

  Mo­re con­fi­den­ce.

  Mo­re fre­edom to be him­self. And tho­se black eyes we­re get­ting to me. They we­re li­ke mag­nets clin­ging to my every mo­ve. I swal­lo­wed disc­re­etly and tri­ed to ig­no­re the qu­e­asy tap dan­ce in my sto­mach. I co­uldn't qu­ite put my fin­ger on it, but so­met­hing abo­ut Patch wasn't right. So­met­hing abo­ut him wasn't nor­mal. So­met­hing wasn't… sa­fe.

  "Sorry abo­ut the hang-up," Patch sa­id, co­ming be­si­de me. Re­cep­ti­on's not gre­at down he­re."

  Ye­ah, right.

  With a tilt of his he­ad, Patch mo­ti­oned the ot­hers to le­ave. The­re was an une­asy si­len­ce be­fo­re any­body mo­ved. The first guy to le­ave bum­ped in­to my sho­ul­der as he wal­ked past. I to­ok a step back to ba­lan­ce myself and lo­oked up just in ti­me to re­ce­ive cold eyes from the ot­her two pla­yers as they de­par­ted.

  Gre­at. It wasn't my fa­ult Patch was my part­ner.

  "Eight ball?" I as­ked him, ra­ising my eyeb­rows and trying to so­und comp­le­tely su­re of myself, of my sur­ro­un­dings. May­be he was right and Bo's wasn't my kind of pla­ce. That didn't me­an I was go­ing to bolt for the do­ors. "How high are the sta­kes?"

  His smi­le wi­de­ned. This ti­me I was pretty su­re he was moc­king me. "We don't play for mo­ney."

  I set my hand­bag on the ed­ge of the tab­le. "Too bad. I was go­ing to bet everyt­hing I ha­ve aga­inst you." I held up my as­sign­ment, two li­nes al­re­ady fil­led. "A few qu­ick qu­es­ti­ons and I'm out of he­re."

  "Jerk?" Patch re­ad out lo­ud, le­aning on his po­ol stick. "Lung can­cer? Is that sup­po­sed to be prop­he­tic?"

  I fan­ned the as­sign­ment thro­ugh the air. "I'm as­su­ming you cont­ri­bu­te to the at­mosp­he­re. How many ci­gars a night? One? Two?"

  "I don't smo­ke." He so­un­ded sin­ce­re, but I didn't buy it.

  "Mm-hmm," I sa­id, set­ting the pa­per down bet­we­en the eight ball and the so­lid purp­le. I ac­ci­den­tal­ly nud­ged the so­lid purp­le whi­le wri­ting De­fi­ni­tely ci­gars on li­ne three.

  "You're mes­sing up the ga­me," Patch sa­id, still smi­ling.

  I ca­ught his eye and co­uldn't help but match his smi­le-bri­efly. "Ho­pe­ful­ly not in yo­ur fa­vor. Big­gest dre­am?" I was pro­ud of this one be­ca­use I knew it wo­uld stump him. It re­qu­ired fo­ret­ho­ught.

  "Kiss you."

  "That's not funny," I sa­id, hol­ding his eyes, gra­te­ful I didn't stut­ter.

  "No, but it ma­de you blush."

  I bo­os­ted myself on­to the si­de of the tab­le, trying to lo­ok im­pas­si­ve. I cros­sed my legs, using my knee as a wri­ting bo­ard. "Do you work?"

  "I bus tab­les at the Bor­der­li­ne. Best Me­xi­can in town."

  "Re­li­gi­on?"

  He didn't se­em surp­ri­sed by the qu­es­ti­on, but he didn't se­em ove­rj­oyed by it eit­her. "I tho­ught you sa­id a few qu­ick qu­es­ti­ons. You're al­re­ady at num­ber fo­ur."

  "Re­li­gi­on?" I as­ked mo­re firmly.

  Patch drag­ged a hand tho­ught­ful­ly along the li­ne of his jaw. "Not re­li­gi­on… cult."